


Little More Time

by jawsandbones



Series: Ficlits [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Smut, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Fenris and Hawke find warmth with each other.---“Hawke, please,” Fenris says, decidedly not annoyed, or bothered in the slightest. There’s a smile on his lips, and one of his hands ghosts against Hawke’s. He receives only the barest grunt in reply, and Hawke presses his face even harder against the crook of his shoulder. He’s stolen Hawke’s shirt. Far too large for him, it slips off his shoulder and Hawke has no qualms in taking advantage, pressing lips against his skin. Arms around his waist, Hawke’s wide chest against his back. He exudes warmth, a veritable furnace all his own, a not unwelcome presence. “You should let me finish with breakfast.”





	Little More Time

“Hawke, please,” Fenris says, decidedly not annoyed, or bothered in the slightest. There’s a smile on his lips, and one of his hands ghosts against Hawke’s. He receives only the barest grunt in reply, and Hawke presses his face even harder against the crook of his shoulder. He’s stolen Hawke’s shirt. Far too large for him, it slips off his shoulder and Hawke has no qualms in taking advantage, pressing lips against his skin. Arms around his waist, Hawke’s wide chest against his back. He exudes warmth, a veritable furnace all his own, a not unwelcome presence. “You should let me finish with breakfast.”

“We should go back to bed,” Hawke tells him instead.

“We will sleep the entire day if we do. As well, the food is almost done,” Fenris says, turning the pan, flipping the eggs. The hard crackle of bacon, slowly sizzling, and he lets the eggs bask in the dripping fat – just the way he knows Hawke likes it best. Hawke had made breakfast the day before, left the eggs slightly too long. Fenris didn’t mind.

“Yes and it looks amazing,” he says, reaching out and slowly pushing the pan away. He snuffs out the flame with the barest whiff of his magic, “but there’s something far more delicious I’d like to eat right now.” A careful bite, the kiss over it, on his shoulder. The smile grows, and Fenris turns to face Hawke. They both still have wild bed hair, and there are dark circles under Hawke’s eyes. Still, he looks at Fenris brightly, warmly. Fenris reaches up, feels the stubble underneath his palms. Hawke closes his eyes, leans into his touch, letting his hands rest on Fenris’s hips.

“Then what are you waiting for?” He asks in a low voice. His permission, as always. With ease, Hawke lifts him into his arms. Settling him onto the counter, far away from the pans, still hot elements of the stove. No matter how many times they kiss, Hawke always kisses him the same way. As though he is lost without it, dying without it, as though Fenris is the only thing he needs. That, at that very moment, Fenris is the most important thing in the world. Little does he know that Hawke feels that way about him all the time.

Hands are easily slipped underneath that oversized shirt. Hawke’s hands are large, rough but gentle. Sliding over the muscle of his stomach, the curve of his hips, and Fenris breathes in the scent of him. Closing his eyes as he drapes arms over Hawke’s shoulders, threads fingers through his hair. He feels Hawke nudging his head against his, and without opening his eyes, leans back to accept the kiss. Drinking him in deeply, a sharp inhale as Hawke pushes into the kiss. Hawke groans when Fenris opens his mouth to him, and tongue presses against tongue.

His hands are still moving. Tight against his hips. Over belly and rib, palm flat against his chest. Circling around, fingertips moving over the ridges of his spine. Tracing shoulder-blades, curling back around. Hawke paints with touch, and Fenris is his canvas. He knows that if he were to open his eyes, Hawke would have that hopeless stitch between his brows, that desperation in loving which consumes him. Fenris leans forward, against him, teeth around his earlobe. Pulling at it before, “bed,” and Hawke’s grip stiffens around him. Without hesitation, Hawke lifts him into his arms again. Legs around his waist, Fenris holds tightly.

His hands are still under the shirt. Hawke is still kissing him. Each step is sure-footed, the house a map in his mind. Taking each step without fear, and Fenris trusts him to do so. Laying him back down onto the bed, and it might still be warm from where Hawke had been lying. Reaching for the edge of the shirt, and Fenris lifts arms above his head. Hawke takes it off of him, swiftly moves forward to kiss him once again. Strange, to think of a time when he disliked kisses. Now, he thinks he might lose his mind if Hawke stopped.

Stop he does, only briefly. Looking at him through half-lidded eyes, ghosting a lighter kiss across his lips. Looking at him again, and Fenris raises his eyebrows, claps a hand across Hawke’s mouth when he moves forward. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks. Kissing at Fenris’s palm, until he moves his hand, and Hawke gives him a lopsided grin.

“I love you,” he says, drunk on the taste of him, the feel of him, the warmth of him. Fenris’s ears twitch involuntarily as he lies back against the pillows, looks away from Hawke. He hates that he can feel the heat at the back of his neck, the blush in his cheeks.

“Hmm,” is all he can manage in return, as wisps of white hair stray across his forehead. Hawke chuckles, a low and happy sound. His hands move from Fenris’s ankles, down his legs, tight against his thighs. Hawke is bending over, teeth at the soft flesh of his neck, a kiss to the goblet of his neck. He braces himself over him with an elbow in the mattress, his other hand gripping underneath one of Fenris’s thighs. Holding him tight, pulling him close, and smothering him in all the love Hawke has to give. He thought once, such a love might be suffocating. Something to drown in.

And oh, to drown.

To be buoyed by him, that vast ocean of Hawke all around him. It isn’t suffocating. Far from it. It’s more freedom than he’s ever known. A promise. Something endless.

Fenris shifts a hand through Hawke’s hair, over his shoulders, all the skin of him that he can reach, touch, feel. Hawke’s fingers are hooked into the waistband of his undergarments, pulling them off and down his legs. Hands that press against his thighs once again, spread his legs so that Hawke can kneel between them. A grip tight around his waist, keeping him steady, and Fenris wraps legs around him, ankle draped over ankle. Reaching for the vial at the bedside, and he tosses it down to Hawke. A single kiss against his belly, and Hawke is fumbling with the stopper, oil on his fingers and in his palm.

A circle of kisses around his belly button, breathing hard against the thin white hair that trails down. His cock twitches at the feel of Hawke’s warm breath, the stubble of his cheek. One arm underneath his leg, his other hand moving past his cock, down below. Hawke brushes lips against his cock, runs his tongue from base to tip. Circling the head of him, making Fenris’s fists clench into the bedsheets. Pressure against that sensitive spot, just there, and his tongue is still circling him even as fingers press against his entrance. Beginning to move them, massage him, and Fenris resists the urge to rock his hips against him.

“Maker, Fen,” Hawke groans, “I love you so much.” Whatever Fenris might have said, the words die on his lips, in a gasp, as Hawke finally takes him into his mouth. The entire length of him, down to the hilt, Hawke’s throat tight, wet, warm. He does it at the same moment he pushes a finger inside. Fenris’s legs shake, heels pressing against Hawke’s back. Tilting his head back, breath still coming in gasps, and his hands leave the blankets to pull at Hawke, trembling fingers against the crown of his head. Hawke groans, and Fenris can feel the rumble of his throat.

Eyes squeezing tightly closed as lips part, and his back arches. Hawke supports him completely, and the rhythm of his finger doesn’t stop. Curling to find that spot of him, and Fenris’s toes curl. Hawke bobs his head up and down, tongue moving without rest, vulgar sounds lost in the groans of him. He knows Hawke will be hard, dripping salt – a confession once, when Fenris had asked what he gained from focusing all his attention on him. _Nothing brings me more pleasure than to make you feel good_. He’s proven it, time and time again.

Once, he might have held back the groan but Hawke slips another finger inside him and Fenris lets it go free. He can almost feel Hawke shiver at the sound. Cheeks hollow, mouth moving ceaselessly, and now – now – he can’t stop the subtle grind of his hips upwards, desperate to be buried deep, to have more of Hawke. Such sweet torture until the third finger is added, stretching him kindly, fingers stroking that lightning spot, and Fenris fears he might come undone. “Hawke,” he says, voice hoarse and so far away, a fist in his hair, “I want to cum with you.” Hawke slowly pulls his fingers from him, moves to his knees. His mouth is last, as always, his cock wet with salt and with Hawke. He kisses the tip of it, takes one last taste.

Hawke kneels back, takes himself in hand. Sure enough, he’s dripping with want, cock pulsing hard with it. Emptying the rest of the vial, coating himself slick in it. Stroking himself, those large hands of his pumping back and forth. Fenris watches him, licks his lips, and slides his hips closer. Raising himself onto his elbows, watching darkly through long lashes, white hair. Hawke doesn’t miss the meaning of that gaze. A hand on his knee, parting his legs once again. Moving down to his hip, lifting him up slightly, and Hawke aligns the head of his cock with his entrance. Fenris tilts his head back, and his fingernails bite into his palms as Hawke pushes himself inside.

Inch by slow inch, and Hawke moans when he’s finally pressed to the hilt. His hands squeeze on Fenris’s hips, and he doesn’t move – not yet. They both take a few moments to feel it, to get used to it, and Hawke gives him that same hopeless look once again. “I love you,” he says, as he begins to move. Lowering himself down, arms underneath Fenris, elbows in the mattress. Fenris has no choice but to lie back completely, wrap his arms around Hawke. Those kisses again, picking up as though his mouth had never left. He can taste himself on Hawke’s tongue, feel his forehead press against his.

 “Garrett,” Fenris murmurs, “I love you.” Hawke’s hips stutter at the sound of his voice, at his words, his splayed hands spasming slightly at Fenris’s back. Hawke is so large, strong, powerful, but never once does Fenris feel in danger, suffocated. This is his Hawke. Rolling his hips to meet his, keeping Hawke inside him buried deep. Hawke moves, head beside head, one hand holding Fenris’s hip while the other moves upwards, against Fenris’s head. It’s as though he must encompass all of him, to know he’s there, to feel him best of all. They rock together, and Hawke’s thrusts are coming quicker now.

Fenris reaches between them, wraps a hand around himself. Still slick with Hawke’s attentions, his own desire, he easily strokes himself, his knuckles brushing against Hawke’s stomach. The heat is rolling of Hawke in waves, a sure sign that he’s close. His heart begins to beat loud and quick – powerful enough that Fenris can feel it against every inch of him. Hawke moans, he gasps, his hard cock pulses inside of Fenris, and he squeezes him close and lovingly. Fenris spills his seed in ribbons against his own stomach, against Hawke, while Hawke breathes against him.

He hasn’t moved, not yet, and his fingers weave comforting touches against Fenris’s head. Still breathing low against his ear, the weight of him so perfectly kept above him. Fenris closes his eyes, knocks head against head, and Hawke is loath to move. Fenris doesn’t want him to. Hawke is still half buried inside him, and still exuding those waves of warmth. Fenris basks in it as Hawke’s thumb moves in circles against his hips. “I love you,” Hawke finally mumbles, “I love you so much.”

“And I you,” Fenris tells him, his voice no more than a whisper. Breakfast is a thing far removed from his mind. For now, there’s only Hawke.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


End file.
